


And They Lived Happily Ever After (to the End of Their Days)

by LadyNimrodel



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: And schmoop, Drabble Collection, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Shire!Au, Thorin retires to the Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I asked tumblr for headcanons of Thorin retiring in the Shire and I would write a small fic for each. Every prompt is amazing and adorable and I've had a blast writing them. They include Bilbo braiding Thorin's hair every morning, Thorin booby trapping Bag End to keep Bilbo safe, Thorin being adorable with Frodo, Thorin playing his harp in Bilbo's garden and many more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Braids

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. bilbo starts braiding thorin's hair in the morning (and bilbo just KNOWS how intimate it is) and he's really good and he does dutch and french (idk what they would be called in middle-earth though lol) and it becomes sort of a ritual of theirs and thorin just dies of cuteness

Thorin wakes to cold toes and Bilbo humming in the kitchen. Soft sheets and woolen blankets bunch up around his neck and despite how his right foot sticks out from under them, he relaxes into their warmth for a while. The sounds of cooking sometimes accompanies Bilbo’s tune, a clang of a pot, a ting of a spoon on china. Soon the smell of cooking sausages and sweet flat cakes will fill the smial, just like every morning. 

Sometimes he can’t believe this is his life. He often wonders what he did so right to have this. 

Just as he is contemplating falling back asleep until Bilbo inevitably shakes him loose from the sheets, there is a small snuffling to his right. Lifting his head, he finds Frodo curled up against Bilbo’s abandoned pillow, black curls stark against the pale bed covers. The boy is fast asleep and is likely to remain so. Thorin found a kindred spirit in Frodo in that they both don’t wake easily in the morning. 

A fact that drives Bilbo crazy. 

Thorin turns over and frees one of his arms so he can gently brush dark curls from Frodo’s forehead, affection clutching at his throat. He remembers when Fili and Kili used to do the same thing, heads pressed together in sleep and both trying to squeeze the life out of Thorin. Frodo is a lot more respectful of personal boundaries but by the time his nephews are done with the boy, he doubts it will stay that way. 

Thorin’s eyes flutter closed again but he cannot stop smiling, even as he gently curls his fingers through Frodo’s curls. 

“You are turning that boy into an absolute bum,” Bilbo’s murmurs from the doorway and Thorin huffs a laugh. Frodo doesn’t even stir. With great care not to shake the bed too much, he rolls over and grins innocently. 

“How is it my fault you are abnormal and like mornings?” he rumbles, voice rough with sleep, and enjoys Bilbo’s indignant expression. 

“Just because I like to get things done before noon does not makes me abnormal,” he mutters, putting on a good show by stamping into the room with his hands on his hips and cheeks puffed out in a pout. The gleam in his eye gives him away though and Thorin throws the sheets back enough to reach out, snagging Bilbo’s hand as he pauses by the bed. 

“Where’s my kiss?” he whispers, like he does every morning, and hums happily against Bilbo’s soft lips press an obliging kiss to his. It is comfortable. Familiar. Bilbo pulls back only to kiss him again, deep this time, wetter. When he straightens, his cheeks are a delightful pink and he looks disheveled even though Thorin only holds his hand. 

“Mush,” Bilbo huffs fondly. He shakes Thorin’s hand off only to reach over and pick up the hairbrush on the bedside table. It’s a pretty thing, silver inlaid with mother of pearl and bristles strong enough to work knots from a dwarf’s thick hair. He presses a please smile into his pillow. 

He would wake up before the sun just for this. 

“Sit up,” Bilbo says and sits at Thorin’s hip with an expectant air. Thorin readily complies, turning so he faces the headboard. Behind him, Bilbo shifts around and starts brushing Thorin’s long, curly hair, mussed and tangled from sleep. His small fingers are gentle and he makes sure to never pull, always working from bottom to top. The shifting of hair makes his scalp tingle and a sleepy pleasure steal through his body. 

The first time Bilbo did this, it was not long after Thorin (with both nephews in tow) showed up at Bag End and they were still getting used to each other. He’d woken in Bilbo’s bed to Bilbo’s dark blue eyes watching him from the opposite pillow. Back then waking thus was like a kick in the gut, leaving him breathless and amazed. That morning had been no different. But when Bilbo went to push Thorin’s hair from his face, his fingers had gotten all tangled up. 

“Blast it all,” he’d snapped, nearly ripping the hair from Thorin’s scalp when he pulled his hand free. He apologized with a kiss but he eyed the mess of tangled curls with disgust, “Stay right there,” then he had slid out of bed, nightshirt as rumpled as his honey colored curls and when he came back, he was wielding a brush and a strip of leather. 

“What are you doing with that?” Thorin demanded only to squawk in protest when Bilbo yanks the blankets from his shoulders. Being a lot less dressed (he will never understand hobbit propriety and Bilbo’s need for nightshirts, especially after what they have done together) it was somewhat disconcerting. But Bilbo only commanded him to sit up and what could Thorin do but obey. 

The feel of nimble fingers putting his hair to rights and then working a complicated set of braids into it had stunned Thorin. He hadn’t uttered a word the entire time Bilbo worked, marveling at the intimacy of it. For another to braid a dwarf’s hair is…well, intimate. An act for the closest of relations or lovers. The only person who had ever put braids in his hair after his mother was Dis. To have Bilbo’s hands in his hair, to have his fingers twine and twist the strands into braids, left him breathless and made his eyes sting. The feel of it made his heart race and in that moment, he felt right. 

Complete. 

When Bilbo was done, Thorin ran his fingers over the complicated pattern Bilbo had made in his hair and he had to bite his lip to stem the sudden overwhelming tide of emotion. 

That day they may have stayed in bed a lot longer than planned. 

Now he leans back into it, closing his eyes so he might experience every tug and stroke. The room is quiet save for an occasional snuffle from Frodo and the shift of Bilbo’s clothes as he moves. 

The pat on his shoulder and kiss on his cheek comes all too soon and he reaches around to see what kind of braid Bilbo put in his hair today. It is fat and complicated, a five stranded weave that hangs heavily to the middle of Thorin’s back. He admires it when he pulls it over his shoulder, the weave perfectly tight and even. He knows from experience that it will hold all day. It would probably hold for many days but at night Bilbo likes unraveling his work so he can start over fresh the next day. 

It is adorable and wonderful and Thorin loves him a little more every time. 

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Bilbo reminds him as he disappears back down the hall, “Can you get Frodo up please?” Thorin hums a wordless reply, still running his fingers over the braid. 

He will get up in a moment, will gently shake Frodo awake with a ruffle of his hair and see him dressed before shuffling him off to breakfast. But he takes a moment first to cling to the intimacy of Bilbo braiding his hair, to think about how lucky he is, to press a grin into the rope of the braid, his hair cool against his flushed cheeks. 

His day is never truly begins until Bilbo braids his hair.

Then the smell of breakfast makes its way into the bedroom and he lets the braid fall heavily over his shoulder so he can tickle Frodo awake.


	2. Booby Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is not pleased when he finds out Thorin has been laying booby traps around his house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. So I may or may not have tossed the Goonies on recently, and now your request for fluffy prompts made me wonder what life would be like for our happy couple in Bag End if Thorin -- hoping to ward off greedy hobbits after walking in on that auction, and more threatening intruders alike -- what if Thorin had this habit of secretly booby-trapping random elements of the smial, oft-times without Bilbo's knowledge? OK, venturing from the Fluff Zone into full-on Crack here...

Bilbo is tidying his study when he hears the shrieking from outside. It sounds like a pack of orcs have descended upon the Shire and are chasing its residents about with swords. 

Badly startled, he dashes to the front door, the screaming growing ever louder, and flings the door open…

Only to find Lobelia hanging upside down from the eaves of the roof by a rope around her ankle. 

He stares, shocked, as she twists and struggles and attempts to keep her skirts from falling down over her face. It is a losing fight he realizes quickly and would think it funny if she was not currently hanging arse up from his own roof. She is still screeching like a cat that’s been stepped on and when she spins around, he can see her face is as red as the tomatoes from his garden. Unfortunately, she spots him as well.

“Bilbo Baggins, stop gawking at me and get me down from here at ONCE!” she shouts, face turning, impossibly, even redder. He bites his lip and is considering how to get her down without dumping her on her head when Thorin comes sprinting around the corner, long handled shovel raised like it’s Orcrist. He stops at the sight of Lobelia hissing and twisting from the end of the rope though. 

Bilbo stares at him for a moment and understanding begins to dawn. 

“Thorin. Love,” he starts as his cousin shrieks like a tea kettle at being left hanging, “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?” he likes to think his voice is calm and reasonable but the sudden look of unease on Thorin’s face tells him he may not be as serene as he would like. 

“Um…” Thorin lets the shovel fall and Bilbo will swear up and down until the end of his days Thorin shuffles his feet in the dirt like a faunt being scolded, “Bilbo, they were carrying away your possessions! I couldn’t let them just…just…” he trails off at the look on Bilbo’s face. It must be impressive if it has caused Thorin to go pale like that. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you have been doing this since we’ve returned?!” he practically snarls, beyond furious, “That snare that Hamfast got stuck in last month and the pit poor Drogo fell in the month before. That was all you?” Thorin bites his lip and looks about ready to bolt. 

“Well…” he begins but Bilbo won’t let him continue. 

“Get. Her. Down. Now,” his voice is low and dangerous and Thorin obeys instantly. Being as tall as he is, he can reach the knot in the rope that connects it to the roof and gently lowers Lobelia down to the ground. She scrambles to her feet, angrier than Bilbo has ever seen her, shaking hands frantically smoothing down her skirts and trying to right her hair. All the while she glares at Bilbo and Thorin alike.

“This is not over, do you hear me? I am going to ruin you, Bilbo Baggins,” and she marches off, a limp evident, face still red and scattering a few onlookers at his gate. He groans and rubs his hand over his face, already dreading the aggravation she is going to cause him over this. Then he looks at Thorin who’s mouth is pressed into a mutinous line and has his arms crossed over his chest and Bilbo is furious all over again. 

“Inside,” he hisses, pointing at the open doorway. At first he thinks Thorin will just stalk off, judging by the frown marring his brow. But then he gives a jerky shrug before marching inside. The slam of the door is jarring when Bilbo shuts it behind them. Then he faces down Thorin with his hands on his hips and anger burning hot in his chest, “When did you start booby trapping my home?” he asks and Thorin practically growls. 

“They were stealing from you!” he protests, throwing his hands out to the side, “They pronounced you dead and were selling off your possessions! And you know I’ve caught that one trying to sneak in more than once after that! Should I have just let that go?” 

“Yes!” Bilbo shouts back instantly, “Yes, you should let it go! Drogo and Hamfast did nothing wrong and were caught up anyway! Lobelia has always been grasping and greedy but she has so far done no harm,” Thorin deflates, ducking his head as he glances away. He suddenly looks small and old and Bilbo’s anger drains away. He reaches over and laces his fingers through Thorin’s, bringing his hand up to kiss the broad knuckles. 

“I wanted to protect you,” Thorin murmurs, stepping close so he can run his free hand through Bilbo’s curls. Touched, Bilbo kisses his knuckles again then presses his forehead to Thorin’s chest. 

“I know, my love. And I appreciate that. But perhaps we can find a way for you to do that without hanging any of my relations from the eaves,” Thorin hums in agreement and Bilbo enjoys their embrace for a long moment. Then he thinks about Lobelia, upside down and knickers on display and bursts out laughing. Thorin pulls away, framing Bilbo’s face with his hands as he continues to laugh and laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Thorin asks, a smile beginning to curl on his lips. Bilbo gasps for air, still giggling breathlessly. 

“I’m never going to forget her, hanging there with her skirts over her head!” and then they are both gone, leaning on each other as they howl with laughter.


	3. Hobbit Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is disappointed that Frodo wants to call him Uncle instead of father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. Thorin moves back to the shire with Bilbo after the hobbit adopts Frodo and when Frodo calls Thorin "Uncle" the first time, Thorin immediatley finds Bilbo and cries in his arms because "now i cant call him my hobbit son"

Summer in the Shire is very different from any summer that Thorin has experienced elsewhere. 

In Erebor, at the height of its wealth and majesty, Summer meant weekly market days in Dale and caravans of dwarves from the far south bringing exotic spices and fine silk fabrics and jewelry the likes he has never seen before. It was feasts every other night, celebrating the abundance of their wealth. Then the dragon came and summer became relief. Relief from hunger and the cold but it also meant traveling to villages of Men to earn a living just so he could feed his people. Even once they established a place in Erid Luin, summer meant working and saving. 

But then he came to the Shire and summer is now endless blue skies, green rolling hills, an abundance of food from crops and kitchens, wild berry picking parties, nighttime parties, birthday parties and harvest celebrations. Summer is tiny raspberry cakes with sugar icing and long walks into the woods and grass tickling his perpetually bare feet. 

Summer is also evenings catching lightning bugs with Bilbo and Frodo, dashing about in the fields chasing after the little flashes of light. Until they all tire and flop in the grass to watch the stars. 

Thorin does not run after the lightning bugs tonight. He ate one too many slices of Bilbo’s lovely strawberry rhubarb pie and he fears the result of running around after eating so much. So he lounges against a tree trunk, patting his full, rounding belly and watches as Bilbo and Frodo easily collect little lights in their hands only to set them free again. Frodo giggles every time they flutter off his palms and he quickly darts away to catch another. 

Bilbo is slower to move, calmly rustling through the grass and scooping up fireflies with practiced ease. Thorin admires the way the silvery remains of the sunset turn Bilbo’s russet curls pale and his face almost ethereal. After so many years together, Bilbo is still the most beautiful creature he has ever beheld. 

Thorin is just beginning to fantasize about Bilbo spread out under the moonlight wearing only fireflies in his hair when suddenly Frodo is standing in font of him. 

He is a lovely boy, with black curls and huge blue eyes that have the power to get him anything he wants from both Thorin and his uncle. He used to be quiet and serious but now he smiles and laughs as much as a child should. And Thorin loves him like a son. Now Frodo grins at him in greeting and opens his hands to reveal at least a dozen fireflies cupped in his palms. 

“Look, Uncle Thorin! It’s the most I’ve ever caught at once!” he cries, and shrieks a laugh when all of the fireflies take off at once, fluttering into his face. As quickly as he’d come, he is gone again, dashing after another flash of light. 

He has no idea Thorin is frozen in shock from being addressed as “Uncle Thorin”. 

When Bilbo comes traipsing over and takes a seat beside him in the grass, he cannot even speak around the warring elation and disappointment. Bilbo, of course, knows at once something has happened for he leans forward and peers into Thorin’s stiff face. 

“Are you sure that last piece of pie didn’t make you ill?” he finally asks, worried and Thorin mutely nods. Then he shakes his head. Then he nods again. Uncle. Again he is an Uncle. He looks to where Frodo is still bounding in the tall grass, leaping after fireflies and feels his eyes burn. Unthinkingly, he keels to the side and buries his head in Bilbo’s lap, trying to hide the disturbing lack of control he has over his emotions. 

“He called me Uncle,” he complains into the fabric of the fine trousers and he is definitely not going to cry. Even so, he winds his arms around Bilbo’s waist and holds him close. Slim fingers gently stroke his hair, the touches soothing. 

“Did he?” Bilbo muses, sounding pleased, “I was wondering when he would call you that to your face. He’s been addressing you as Uncle Thorin to me for weeks,” Thorin groans and presses his forehead into Bilbo’s soft belly, a cold button no doubt leaving an indent in his skin. 

“But I wanted to call him my hobbit son!” it doesn’t come out as a wail but it is a close thing. There is silence from Bilbo for long moments before the stomach under his head jumps oddly. When he glances up through his hair, he realizes Bilbo is trying not to laugh. His eyes are kind and full of affection when he meets Thorin’s gaze. 

“Love, he calls you that because he calls me Uncle. And we are a pair so it makes sense. But we love him no less than a parent loves their children and that’s enough, right?” Thorin thinks about this, about how much sense it makes and nods mutely against Bilbo’s stomach. 

They listen to Frodo’s laughter for a little while before Bilbo laughs again, making Thorin’s head jump. 

“Were you like this with Fili and Kili?” he wonders and Thorin growls, squeezing him briefly. 

“Not another word,” and is glad that Bilbo can’t see his fond smile.


	4. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin patiently waits for a grieving Frodo to accept him as family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Happily ever after in the Shire headcanon: Frodo is super shy and withdrawn when he first comes to Bag End, and Thorin tries to be so patient and understanding with him because he knows what it's like to lose your parents, and the first time Frodo crawls into his lap and calls him 'Uncle Thorin' is one of the proudest and happiest moments of his life

The boy that Bilbo holds is a small, quiet thing with huge solemn blue eyes and a mop of black curls.

Thorin stands stupidly in the front entry way as Bilbo, with the boy on one hip, stares back. His confusion must show on his face because Bilbo takes pity on him by answering the unspoken question.

“This is Frodo. Drogo’s boy, you remember?” Thorin blinks, takes a moment to think about when he might have been introduced to the boy (someone’s birthday party or another and the boy had barely stood still long enough for his parents to introduce him before he was off with a pack of other hobbit children) and nods. Bilbo clutches the boy tight, his dark blue eyes sad as Frodo ducks his face into his collar, “His parents died in an accident and he was getting lost among his Took cousins. So I…I brought him home,” he presses his nose into Frodo’s curls and Thorin aches with the sorrow on his face, “This is his home now.”

And just like that, Thorin understands.

With another wordless nod, he lets Bilbo into the house and watches as he carries Frodo into the kitchen. Thorin catches a flash of wide blue eyes before they both disappear around the corner.

He knows in that moment their lives are about to change.

*

Frodo is very shy at first. He hides in the room he is given (once a guest room but quickly filled with all of Frodo’s old toys and new ones because Bilbo does not know how to cope with his silence so he just buys him things. Thorin tells him to wait until they can send out orders to Erebor, get dwarven made toys but then Bilbo sensibly says why not buy both) and doesn’t say two words together for weeks. He’s like a small ghost, clinging to the edges of furniture or hiding under his bed.

“I don’t know what to do,” Bilbo finally confesses after a few days, tired circles under his eyes and worry lines deep between his eyebrows. They are standing in the kitchen, cleaning up another meal that Frodo barely touched. The boy had fled as soon as he could and the entire time he would not make eye contact with either Bilbo or Thorin, “He won’t eat, he doesn’t sleep. He just hides away. I can’t even hold him when he’s crying,” Bilbo’s voice catches and he nearly drops the plate he’s cleaning as he puts it down. Heart aching, Thorin walks up behind him and wraps him in his arms, resting his chin on top of the curly head. Bilbo is tense in his embrace.

“He needs time, my love,” Thorin says soothingly, running his hands up and down Bilbo’s arms and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, “He lost his parents suddenly and was thrown into a chaotic household where he got lost. Let him acclimate to his new surroundings and he’ll come around,” Bilbo nods slowly but he doesn’t relax. He does back off, though, and while he still treats Frodo kindly when the boy dares to come out of hiding, he no longer goes seeking him out.

Patience, Thorin keeps reminding Bilbo when he can see the worry building up again, patience and love.

If Bilbo still tries to spoil the boy with toys and food, well, that’s okay.

*

The first time Frodo sneaks into their room a couple of weeks after coming to live at Bag End, Bilbo weeps a little bit.

It is very late and they are fast asleep, Bilbo curled against Thorin’s back. The soft creak of the bedroom door being pushed open wakes Thorin first. After many long years of sleeping outside with one eye always open, he cannot shake the habit of sleeping lightly. At first he tenses, thinking there’s an intruder. But then he sees the outline of a small hobbit on the other side of the bed, blue eyes humungous in the darkness.

“Is everything alright, little one?” Thorin whispers, turning over so he can peer over Bilbo’s shoulder. His movement makes Bilbo stir, coming awake with a low hum and a sniffle. He blinks questioningly (adorably) up at Thorin and he reminds himself they have an audience. He just points at the boy standing silently at the end of their bed, staying quiet as Bilbo looks around and exclaims when he sees his nephew watching them.

“Frodo! What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Bilbo sits up, blankets falling around his waist and revealing his finicky nightshirt that never fails to amuse Thorin. Though he suspects Bilbo might be on to something now with someone else living in the house, as he himself is bare from the waist up and probably in no fit state for viewing. But Frodo isn’t looking at him. He has honed in on his uncle, eyes filling with tears.

“I had a bad dream,” he whispers hoarsely, little hands twisting in his pajamas. Bilbo makes a low noise and opens his arms. Instantly the boy is on the bed and curled snugly in Bilbo’s embrace. There is a little bit of sniffling and soothing murmurs and Thorin watches, knows he has not yet been accepted. As much as he wants to wrap both of them up in his arms and bundle them snug and safe under the blankets, he knows he has to be patient a while longer. Finally Frodo stops crying, sagging tiredly against Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Bilbo whispers gently and the dark head nods shyly. Thorin sees the blue eyes peering at him briefly and he just smiles mildly. When Bilbo looks at him for his feelings on the matter, he nods and reaches out to clutch briefly at Bilbo’s elbow.

So they settle back into bed only now with Frodo curled up against his uncle, where he stays until morning.

*

After that Frodo begins to open up. He starts eating more, stays even after they are done and watches Bilbo and Thorin cleaning up together. Once, when Thorin unthinkingly swoops in while Bilbo is cooking and kisses his ear while he steals a piece if bacon and gets swatted at for his effort, a small giggle interrupts before Bilbo can really start scolding him. They both turn to find Frodo watching them shyly from the doorway, holding a small stuffed bunny to his chest. He smiles at them both before hopping up onto one of the kitchen chairs. Thorin keeps his hands to himself for the rest of the day. At least while they have an audience.

After dinner, Frodo starts sneaking into the sitting room while Bilbo reads and Thorin plucks softly at his harp to sit quietly at his uncle’s feet. Sometimes he listens to Thorin play with wide eyes, who often plucks out small, happy tunes his nephews used to favor when they were young. Sometimes Frodo tugs on Bilbo’s pants and asks quietly if he would read aloud. And sometimes he just curls up on the soft carpet in front of the fire and dozes.

When this happens, Thorin always gets up and tucks a blanket around Frodo’s slender shoulders. If he pushes a stray curl from his face when he does, well, Bilbo is the only one there to witness it.

But the dreams persist. At least three times a week the boy finds his way into their room, tucking himself away next to Bilbo. Thorin always wakes up at the first push of the door but sometimes Bilbo just mutters and makes space in his sleep. Those times Thorin has to invite Frodo and he is gratified when the boy starts to grace him with a small smile.

When he wakes up almost a moth after Frodo first arrived to find the boy sprawled out between him and Bilbo, something in his heart cracks.

An overwhelming wave of love makes his ears ring and he spends a moment or two smoothing the dark curls off of Frodo’s forehead, careful not to wake him.

Perhaps Frodo is finally beginning to come out of his shell.

*

At two months in, Frodo is still shy. But he will hold conversations with both of them and is beginning to show interest in going outside to play with his cousins and the Gamgee boy that lives down the lane. But while he has become more affectionate with Bilbo, giving him unsolicited hugs, cuddling up with him while Bilbo reads aloud, giving his uncle a kiss on the cheek before running out the door to play, he is still more reserved with Thorin.

Thorin doesn’t mind. He remembers what it was like, losing his family tragically and though he was not as young as Frodo and was responsible for his people, grief made him angry and distrustful. All he can do is talk to the boy patiently, tell him stories, keep an eye on him when he sits too close to the fire, steals cookies for him when Bilbo isn’t looking, and hope Frodo will come around eventually.

And then one day, he does.

It is late, long after supper, and Thorin sits in the chair that he favors, quietly watching Bilbo writing at his desk. He loves watching Bilbo write. Actually, he loves watching Bilbo do anything, loves the way his face sets with concentration or becomes abstract when he’s thinking. Loves the way the firelight plays on his honey colored curls and the way he sometimes swings his feet against the legs of his stool. Thorin loves everything about him, really.

Thorin is cataloging everything he loves about Bilbo when there is a tap on his knee.

Frodo stares at him from the floor, holding Thorin’s harp up with a hopeful look on his face. He takes the harp from the boy with a smile.

“And what would you like me to play, Master Frodo?” the boy smiles shyly at the formal address, expression pleased.

“Can you play the lullaby you sang the other day? The one about the mountains?” Frodo can’t know it but the question makes his heart skip a beat. He had not known he had an audience when he sang that song the other day, alone in the back garden as he was. It was no longer painful to sing of his home but he still misses Erebor, despite his contentment here in the Shire. But he could not deny Frodo, no more than he could Fili when he used to ask the very same thing in that very same voice. Bilbo whips around to look at him, concern on his face but Thorin shakes his head.

“Of course I can,” he says quietly and takes the harp from the boy. Frodo settles down at Thorin’s feet, eyes round and face open, watching raptly as the harp is settled and tuned.

Frodo stays rapt with attention through all of the verses, watching both Thorin’s face and his fingers on the strings with careful attention. Heart full, he glances over Frodo’s head to find Bilbo watching him as well, worry melting into a small smile and, for the first time in his life, the song does not fill his heart with longing.

His home and his treasure is right here in front of him.

When he is done, Frodo takes the harp from him and climbs up to take its place, curling himself into Thorin’s chest.

Shocked, Thorin sits frozen for a long moment, staring down at the top of Frodo’s head. Small hands clutch his tunic and he is a warm weight in his lap. Slowly, almost afraid the boy will slip away if he makes the wrong move, he curls his arms around Frodo, clutching him close. His ears are ringing again, heart full to bursting. He has to duck his head when the emotions crest, making his eyes fill and throat clog.

“Thank you, Uncle Thorin,” Frodo murmurs sleepily against his chest and Thorin’s breath catches. It takes a few deep breaths before he can form a response.

“You’re welcome, Frodo,” he whispers roughly, a tear tracking down his cheek to dampen his beard. But he won’t let go of the boy in his arms to wipe it away. He just holds Frodo tight. When he glances up at Bilbo across the room, he finds he is being watched closely, affection plain in Bilbo’s suspiciously bright eyes. Their connection makes Bilbo get up and cross the room, lowering himself onto the wide arm of the chair so he can press his body against Thorin’s shoulder. Clever fingers twine in his hair and a kiss is pressed to his temple. They settle in, the three of them curled together on the chair.

And all the while, Thorin burns with joy.


	5. Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin hates when Bilbo makes the bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has 0.58% tolerance for Bilbo's bedlinen regime. Growing up, there were so many rules in my house about which layers of sheets, comforters, and bedspreads were for decoration vs. actual use -- the same for pillows and shams and throw pillows. Making the bed was a nightmare. Do you think Bilbo would adhere to such propriety? Whereas Thorin's only interested in which blankets make the best Hobbit burritos for scooping up and carrying to bed :)

Thorin hates bed linens.

First the sheets are smoothed and tucked in neatly. Then the woolen knit blanket given to them by Ori on one of his visits is tucked away followed by the colorful quilt Bilbo’s mother made many years ago. All packed in neatly, pillows all organized and plumped, the bed skirt straightened, another blanket folded at the end of the bed. Bilbo fusses around, pulling and tugging and acting stuffy as he puts their shared bed together for the day.

And Thorin stands in front of the closet, arms crossed in irritation as he watches.

“What’s the point?” he finally snaps, like he has wanted to for months now. Bilbo glances at him in surprise, a stray curl falling into his eyes.

“What?” he asks as he continues to smooth his hands over a pillow. Thorin wants to throw it against a wall.

“What is the point of all that fuss, if we’re just going to mess it all up tonight?” he exclaims with a sharp gesture at the bed. Bilbo stares at him for a moment, hands finally pausing their infernal fussing and a line of confusion starting to mar his brow.

“What do you mean? I can’t leave it like that! It has to be straightened up,” Thorin huffs, glaring at the many layers of blankets.

“Why? No one comes down here but me and you. No one will see it,” he says reasonably and gets a heated glare in return. Now Bilbo is getting annoyed, straightening up from his fussing and looking ready to plant his feet if Thorin intends to keep arguing. It just makes Thorin want to argue more, though now for the sake of arguing rather than his annoyance at any bed linens.

“I will see it, Thorin. And it will annoy me to no end. Beds should be made up when no one is occupying them. Otherwise it’s just sloppy,” Bilbo responds hotly and they stare at each other, gazes clashing across the space. It just seems so pointless. He looks at the neat bed, the tidy sheets folded under the pillows, each of which are plumped and straightened. And he wants to mess it up. Bilbo must see the impulse flare in his face because there’s a soft gasp and when he looks up, the dark eyes are narrowed.

“Thorin Oakenshield, do not even think about it,” he hisses, real danger in his voice. But it’s too late.

Thorin is across the room and grabbing the quilt before he can even think about it. Bilbo shrieks with fury when he tosses it to the floor. He stares back, challenge in his eyes as he reaches for the next blanket.

“Thorin what—No!” the blanket is tossed to the end of the bed, skewing the pillows and hopelessly mussing the sheets. One of the pillows falls off the other end of the bed and suddenly Thorin is feeling a little hysterical, a little mad. Bilbo’s face is flushed with fury and he is wordlessly gaping at Thorin as if words have escaped him. They probably have.

Thorin really should not laugh. He really shouldn’t. But he does anyway.

Bilbo flies around the bed wielding the dropped pillow and all of the fury in his small frame making his face burn and eyes shine. Thorin, realizing perhaps for the first time just how important this small, silly thing is to Bilbo, gulps and takes a step back. Only to get a pillow full in the face.

“You giant, insensitive oaf!” Bilbo is shouting as he pelts Thorin with the pillow over and over, “What’s wrong with liking a neat house! What’s wrong. With. You?” each word is punctuated with a smack of the pillow that Thorin tries, unsuccessfully, to ward of with his arms. On the last hit, the poor abused pillow explodes feathers with a soft floof sound.

White feathers fill the air, a storm of fluff that sticks to their hair and eyelashes.

They stare at one another, this time in shock as the feathers settle upon them and the surrounding floor and bed. Bilbo then looks down at the now empty pillow case in his hand, eyes huge and a big old feather stuck on his nose.

“My pillow!” he gasps, voice shrill with disbelief and accusation. Which is ridiculous because at least Thorin only messed up the bed.

“You were hitting me with it!” he is quick to defend himself and earns himself a heated glare.

“You were messing up my hard work! For no reason!”

“Of course I had a reason!” Thorin returns, though now he can’t think of what it was. Bilbo puffs up because obviously he knows as much but instead of saying anything, he starts hitting Thorin with the empty pillow case.

“You are a damn liar! You—eep!” fed up with being hit, abet with a scrap of cloth that he barely feels, Thorin grabs Bilbo around the waist and throws him bodily onto the messy bed. He lands with an oof, a puff of feathers, and eyes that have once again gone huge. Before he can move, Thorin is on top of him, hands at his wrists to keep them against the bed and knees on either side of his hips. Effectively caught, Bilbo just glares up at Thorin. It would be an impressive glare too, one of Bilbo’s best actually, if it wasn’t for the feather that clings stubbornly to his eyelashes.

“Are you just going to keep me trapped here like this all day?” Bilbo finally asks, a sharp edge to his voice. Thorin tilts his head, hair falling down over his shoulder, and considers it. He would like to actually. Now that Bilbo isn’t fussing at his linens but is instead on his back with his lovely curls strewn about his face, it is a very real temptation.

“Will you keep hitting me?” Thorin asks instead, eyeing the dark, inviting corners of Bilbo’s mouth. Corners that flatten in annoyance a moment later. Bilbo pulls uselessly at the grip around his wrists for a moment.

“Are you going to mess up the bed every time I try to make it?” he counters. Again Thorin considers this. Then he smiles a sharp smile that drains away some of Bilbo’s ire.

“I don’t think I’m going to let you out of it, actually,” he says thoughtfully and cuts off whatever protest Bilbo is about to utter by replacing the words with his tongue. Bilbo only struggles for a moment before he relaxes into the kiss, gasping a little when Thorin rubs the roof of his mouth and licks at his teeth.

No more angry words are exchanged for a good long while.

Later, much later, wearing a great deal less clothing and quite a few stray feathers, Thorin curls into Bilbo where he lays on his back with a lovely smile curling on his lips and presses an apologetic kiss to his sweaty shoulder.

“I’m sorry for messing up the bed,” he mutters against the skin under his lips. Bilbo snorts.

“What was that all about? You’ve watched me make the bed at least a hundred times and you’ve never reacted like that,” Thorin sighs and lifts himself up onto his elbow to peer into Bilbo’s face. It is peaceful now, no trace of his earlier anger. That has been effectively erased by pleasure and love.

“I don’t think I will ever get why you need fifty million blankets and quilts and whatever else when you have to make the bed every single day. After kicking me out of it, I might add,” Thorin slides his arm around Bilbo’s waist and drags him close so he might bury his nose in damp, honey colored curls. Bilbo strokes his wrist gently.

“Ah. I see. Well, perhaps before I make the bed from now on, we can make even more of a mess of it first,” the suggestive lilt to his voice sends a small sliver of heat through Thorin and when he rolls them over again, Bilbo laughs helplessly.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin builds his own additions to Bag End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #6: Dwarves work with their hands. This is a given, far and wide. Dwarves also tunnel. Hence, when Thorin grows bored of wandering the Shire in awe, trying new goodies at the market, and inevitably making friends through the process of knocking on strange doors in order to seek escort home (whoops!), Bilbo gives him permission to build a reasonable extension for Bag-End.
> 
> Apparently, Bilbo forgot the flexibility of Thorin’s definition of “reasonable.”

“Its…it’s beautiful,” Bilbo breathes and his voice tumbles into the open space. Beside him Thorin has his head lifted, pride visible in the puffed up line of his chest and spread plant of his feet. And he should be proud. Bilbo is proud of him too. 

At their feet sprawls a cavern with great, carved pillars stretching ever upwards to hold up the ceiling, a floor of polished stone so dark it looks like a black mirror and walls so far apart they hide in the shadows. Gold is delicately worked into the pillars, tipping the expert carvings where it is inlaid into the stone. Round lamps on the floor beside each pillar throw light upwards and three great chandeliers made of silver hang from thick chains and pick up where the floor lamps left off. At the far end of the cavern, he can see the pale spill of natural light through what must be an opening in the hill above their heads. At first glance, it is nearly as lovely as some of the smaller caverns he saw in Erebor. 

But as they start walking between the pillars, between the two marching rows, and he can start making out details, he sees the pillars are carved to look like trees. Their thick trucks are rough like real bark and stone arches off near the ceiling like branches. Stone leaves climb upwards, each carved with exquisite care and skill. The leaves crawl outwards on the ceiling, away from the pillar until they reach a different set from the next pillar, weaving together where they meet. Bilbo stands under each pillar, runs his fingers over the veins of gold that wrap around the trunks, exclaim over the detail in the bark and marvels at the beauty of the leaves and branches. Dwarven architecture with very Hobbit like touches. 

He names the trees as he goes from one pillar to the next; maple, poplar, cherry, apple, dogwood, ash, birch, aspen, walnut, chestnut and willow. The willow, complete with long, swooping tendrils of stone, takes his breath away.

The lamps embedded into the floor turn out to be thin metal constructs that look like they are blooming out if the floor. The sides are shaped like flower petals, as delicately made as the leaves on the ceiling, cupped to hold the light of soft yellow flames. Above their heads, the chandeliers sprout like vines from their chains, some curls of metal climbing back up the chains like real vines would. The flames from the candles lick at the silver, makes them look like they are also lined with gold. 

The walls beyond the pillars are bare in the shadowy darkness where the light doesn’t quite reach but he can see several doorways branching off the main room like dark, yawning mouths. Each door, however, is framed by more carvings, though he cannot see what they are from where he stands. 

Awed, Bilbo stands in the middle of the great cavern and spins in a slow circle. When he comes back around to face Thorin, he stretches out his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. 

“If I did not know when you started this, I would have thought it impossible to do all of this in five years,” Bilbo’s eyes alight on each pillar, on the lamps and the doors and he feels his chest go tight, “truly, Thorin, this is incredible. I…I have no words.” Thorin smiles at him, eyes shining in the lamp light. 

“I could not have done it without the company’s help when they come to visit,” he says modestly, watching as Bilbo pads over to the willow tree pillar and gently touches the delicate lines of stone of hanging leaves. It is cool under his finger but strong, for all that it looks like it can been blown away by the softest breeze. It looks like a living thing but it feels like stone. 

“Even so,” Bilbo murmurs, turning back to Thorin with his chest still hot and squeezing like his heart has become too big to be contained, “That you did all of this…it is breathtaking,” he shakes his head, breaking off because he can’t stop looking. A big hand slides into his own a moment later and he lets himself lean against Thorin’s sturdy strength. 

“There is more to show you,” Thorin whispers into his hair and Bilbo pulls back to stare at him. 

“More?” he squawks in amazement and catches the corner of Thorin’s smile as he turns away. Bilbo is led the rest of the way through the marching pillars, all the way to the other wall (and there’s even more trees but he doesn’t have time to name them). Their footsteps make no sound on the smooth stone floor, both of them being barefoot but the whisper of their clothes echoes softly around them and reminds him of running water. 

And then they stop at the far wall and he realizes, no, that is actual running water making that sound. 

Bilbo stands still in shock. 

The entire wall is a mass of carved leaves, stone ivy crawling up towards the ceiling that is vaulted higher at this end to punch through the underside of the hill, letting in sunlight. Water spills down on either side of the single doorway cut into the wall from two spouts high above them, carved into the heads of ravens. It pours into basins cut into the stone floor and is swept along the edges of the wall to either side like tame rivers. There is no gold on this wall but sapphires gleam in the eyes of the raven spouts. It is the doorway, though, that steals his breath. The door is an opening at the base of another carved tree, jutting from the stone. This tree is bigger than the others and its branches stretch all the way up to the cut out in the roof. 

“It’s an oak,” Bilbo breathes, eyes prickling at the corners. He thinks of the acorn he planted in his garden several years ago, thinks about the first time he showed it to Thorin and swallows against the lump in his throat. Rough hands gently card through his hair and steady warmth presses against his back. 

“Aye, it’s an oak,” a kiss upon his ear, a touch of a nose against his cheek. When he looks around at Thorin, he finds soft affection in his lovely blue eyes, “Go through the door, Bilbo.”

So he does. 

It is a relatively long passage from the main cavern to the room beyond, though plain from any ornamentation. The only light comes from the other side, warm natural light that teases at his feet as he walks. And then they are through to the other side and he is once again struck dumb, but for completely different reasons. 

The room is very much like his sitting room back inside the main part of Bag End, only five times the size. The ceilings arch and vault very much like his do and the stone it is carved to mimic rounded wood moulding. There is even a fireplace, big enough that he and Thorin can both stand upright inside and have room for three more bodies, expertly crafted and lovingly detailed. Under his feet, the floors are flagstone, each square a different hue than its neighbor. And, on the far side of the room, is a huge, unbroken window that stretches from one end of the room to the other, letting in the western sun as it sets. 

He wants to weep over the window. 

Thorin must still remember, even now, how the darkness of underground did not agree with Bilbo when they spent those long, awful weeks in a broken Erebor haunted by the shadow of a dragon. At the corners of the window, the stone holding it has small acorns and leaves curling around the long, wooden sill. And the glass is beautifully cut leaded panes. At the edges there are patterns of color, all reds and yellows and dark maroons. Most of the window, however, is huge panels of clear glass so the view of rolling hills and the reddened sky is uninhibited. Where each panel connects is a row of small blue diamonds and all are connected by gold-gilded lead. Bilbo stands in front of it for a long time, running his fingers over the connecting lines and dreaming about spending many evenings here, watching the sun set. 

When he finally turns away, though, he can admire the furniture, also of dwarven make; big and sturdy and practical. There is a desk near the fireplace surrounded by beautiful bookshelves that stretch all the way to the wall. More bookshelves curl around onto the adjoining wall, a few of which have already been filled with books Bilbo suspects Thorin bullied Ori into bringing from the Erebor libraries. Big, soft rugs cover much of the floor, all of them colorful and wonderfully made. He crinkles his toes into the soft wool happily. A chair, big and comfortable, sits in front of the shelves and a plush sofa is pushed up against the wall under the window. On the other side of the room is clearly a work area for Thorin, with a huge table and tall cabinets to hold his tools. All the way on the other side of the table is a door that lead outside, round and blue with beautiful brass hinges and doorknob. 

So this was made as a room for them to spend time together in, even if Thorin is working on a jewelry commission or Bilbo is writing his book. 

“You have outdone yourself, my dear,” Bilbo murmurs from where he stands next to the desk and lovingly rubs his fingers over the smooth, warm surface, “I did not imagine, in my wildest dreams, that when you asked me if you could build under Bag End it would end up like this,” Thorin laughs, flushed cheeks showing how pleased he is with Bilbo’s praise. 

“And what is it you imagined?” the light from the setting sun gilds the silver and white in his dark hair and he looks lovely. Bilbo shakes his head. 

“I’m not sure. Something much like Erebor, I think. Not that would not be lovely too,” he is quick to add when Thorin lifts one eyebrow at him, “But this almost feels…Hobbit-ish,” he finally allows and that earns him another snort of laughter. Thorin reaches out and pulls him towards the window again. Together they look out over the Shire, over their home, sharing in a soft, quiet kind of joy. 

“It’s not nearly done yet,” Thorin finally rumbles, when the sun goes down in the west and twilight settles over the land. Bilbo never wants to leave. He glances up at Thorin through his curls and smiles at the look on his face. It is the look Thorin wears when he is planning. Bilbo presses a kiss to his chest and smiles as the familiar scent of earth and metal fills his nose. 

“I can’t wait to see it when it’s done, my love,” he murmurs and a strong arm wraps around his back, holds him close. This is his life now, he thinks, and he can keep it for as long as he lives. Bilbo makes a silent vow to live very long indeed and see Thorin make a hundred more rooms.


	7. Garden Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobelia make a big mistake when she insults Thorin's garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #7: When Thorin takes up gardening, Bilbo is elated. What Bilbo failed to take into account, however, was a truly wretched run-in with Lobelia, and her obsession with her flowers. Her ugly flowers. That everyone mutters about replanting in the night, but they’re too polite to touch. 
> 
> Thorin waited nearly his whole life for revenge once before. And as Frerin used to say, a prank worth pulling really ought to be the stuff of legend.

Thorin can’t decide what he hates more, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins herself or her horrible garden. 

A fact which he voices to his husband nearly every afternoon, after they’ve been to market for the day and have to pass by her horrendous, ugly, raggedy garden. 

“I think I hate her garden more,” Thorin finally concludes one day, a heavy basket full of bread and honey and cheese on his arm and a scowl on his face. He eyes the garden in question as he walks side by side with Bilbo, “Are you sure I can’t just trample one bush?” Bilbo sighs, just like he always does. Like he is putting up with a huge burden and the world should pity him. 

“Thorin, don’t take your dislike of my cousin out on her poor flowers,” he says, probably for the hundredth time. Thorin grumbles and growls some more, glaring at the offending flowers until the garden disappears around the bend. 

“I dislike her garden,” he explains heatedly, “It is an eyesore! Did you not see those lilies!? They look drunk! And she dares to spread slander about my garden! Which, by the way, has won the award for the best—,” Bilbo cuts him off with another sigh, this one more pointed. It is more of an exclamation than a sigh actually. 

“Thorin, if you bring up that award one more time…” his voice his pleasant but there is definitely an underlying threat buried in it somewhere. Thorin huffs because his garden is spectacular and he likes talking about it. With its roses the size of cabbages, the flowers all different colors and the leaves healthy and full. His lilies are bright and proud, his clematis vibrant and his honeysuckle thriving. It is his pride and joy and though it’s not as big and abundant as Hamfast Gamgee’s is or as fruitful as Bilbo’s, it is beautiful and lovingly tended. 

Unlike someone’s garden he could mention. 

When he had taken up gardening a few years ago, it had really only been a passing fancy. The Shire is peaceful and overflowing with good crops and even better cheer. After the initial settling down period with Bilbo on his home (their home now) Thorin found himself at loose ends. Here and there someone would come to them, seeking a fix for a pot or a piece of prized jewelry and while Thorin’s good reputation for repairing broken items grew far and fast, it still left enough time for him in the day to get bored. He tried reading but sadly he has never been nearly as enamored with books as his husband, and then he tried cooking. Which was fine and all, he’d even perfected a few recipes so well Bilbo claimed they were the best dishes he’s ever eaten, but when he starts something, he gets rather obsessive (ie. the quest to regain Erebor). Soon he was clearing out the pantry in a day and they were left with so much leftover food, they had to throw a spontaneous party just to get rid of it. 

“You can still cook sometimes if you want,” Bilbo had said tiredly, long after the party was over and they’d just gotten finished cleaning up, “but only enough for the two of us and only one meal at a time. Please,” and Thorin thought it better to perhaps put the kitchen back into Bilbo’s very capable hands. 

It was the week after that party that the inspiration for building and tending his own garden came to him. 

He was standing at the study window, absently watching Bilbo rooting around in the tomato beds over a steaming cup of tea and thinking it was much too early to be up and about, much less outside in a garden. But at least that way he got to admire Bilbo’s honey colored curls shine like metal in the sunlight and his lovely arse when he bends down. It’s when he finds himself staring at Bilbo’s clever hands in the dirt, though, that the idea comes to him. 

“You want to have your own garden?” Bilbo seemed doubtful at first when Thorin brought it up over elevensies, one eyebrow cocked dubiously. Thorin shrugged. 

“I’ve watched you do it plenty of times,” he responded somewhat reasonably, “I think I can manage it, if I start small,” then he smiled, bright and hopeful and added, “And I have you here to help me when I need it.” That had done it. Bilbo had eyed him, pretending at first that he is not the least impressed. But Thorin saw the spark in his blue eyes and the smile trying to curl at the corners of his lips. 

“I suppose I can, at that,” Bilbo finally amended and it was settled. 

They started building the garden together the very next day. Bilbo gave Thorin a place at the side of the smial where it was once mostly wild thistle and brush. They ripped all that out and Bilbo directed Thorin on how to build a proper garden bed. Then he started off with roses, six small bushes with red and white and yellow roses clinging to the thorny branches. And he tended them carefully, at first following Bilbo’s lead and then by himself.

The roses, after a few weeks, started to flourish, their colors becoming more vivid as the days went by, leaves filling out, the bushes growing taller and taller. And Thorin got it, the appeal of tending to growing, living plants. Not a very dwarfish pastime, perhaps, but Thorin these days is more Hobbit than Dwarf anyway. 

After the roses, he builds another bed for irises and trillium, with huge, white flowers and even broader leaves. The irises become a big hit, several bearing great big flowers the color of royal purple and soft cream while the rest are shades of yellow and red. He tends the two beds with as much dedication and love as Bilbo does his tomatoes and strawberries. Soon neighbors and friends alike are complementing him on his lovely flowers and Thorin feels a burst of pride like he’s never felt. Yes, he is proud of his lineage and his home, of his nephews and the loyalty of his friends. When he crafted a sword or axe, he felt pride for that too, and even over the small trinkets and household items he still sometimes repairs here in the Shire. It is the pride of hard, honest work. But the pride he feels for his flowers is a softer, warmer kind of thing. 

More fulfilling. 

So after the freeze of winter and the thaw of spring, Thorin adds to his garden five more beds with the generous help of Bilbo and Hamfast. They fill it with all kinds of flowers; bluebells and peonies, lavender and violets, primroses and chrysanthemums. They edge the entire space with hedge roses and a wall against the fence is made into a huge trellis on which climbs clematis, honeysuckle and ivy. Between the beds, he weaves a complicated stone walkway with alternating long, thin bricks and wider, shorter squares. The long bricks are pale grey and the squares are made of light blue glass. By the time he is done, his garden has become full and vibrant. 

All the while, more and more hobbits come down to admire his work, exclaim over how well he is doing here in the Shire and that he should try entering his garden for the Annual Garden and Market Week that takes place at the end of the summer. He isn’t sure at first but when he voices his doubts, Bilbo just looks at him like he’s crazy. 

“After all that work you did, and how lovely your garden is, I think you should most definitely enter!” So he did. 

And ends up winning Best Personal Flower Garden (Bilbo wins for his tomatoes, of course, just like he does every year). With a small, simple blue ribbon stitched with golden thread that says “First Prize” to show for his accomplishment, it spurs on his determination to make his garden the best it can be. Not for the ribbon, of course, even if Bilbo does pin it teasingly to the kitchen door, or the recognition it affords him. But because he sees it as the final step in making the Shire his home. He has accomplished something valued here and has made a place for himself. 

This, unfortunately, is when his feud with Lobelia begins.

After being given the little ribbon by three beaming judges and watching them move on to the next group (Largest Squash), there was a disdainful scoff at his shoulder. When Thorin looks around, Lobelia sneers at him, her round face twisted up. Bilbo always said she was a beautiful woman, only you can’t see it behind the permanent sneer she’s always wearing. Thorin doesn't see it but then he’s never seen her without said expression either. This time it is trained on him and there is an ugly gleam in her eye that he recognizes from arguing with the Guild Elders back when he lived in Erid Luin. 

“I have never heard of such a thing, a dwarf in a garden,” she says then, consonants all bitten off by her teeth before they can fully form. Thorin, who is a lot harder to ruffle these days than he used to be, just smiles. 

“An award winning garden,” he says smoothly and enjoys her sputtering, incoherent response. He turns away with a pleasant farewell because there is only one person whose rage cows him anymore and that is Bilbo. Bilbo, who is already standing next to him, beaming with pride and clutching his own first prize ribbon. As they move to walk away, the small exchange already forgotten, Lobelia musters up a rather delayed snipe that stops Thorin cold, 

“Enjoy it while you can. You may be popular now but your shine will wear off and everyone will see that you don’t belong here,” the words, despite their origin, cut (though he placidly snags Bilbo around the waist and drags him away when his husband whirls around to give Lobelia a piece of his mind).

Because that is Thorin’s greatest fear; that Bilbo will realize that he doesn’t belong and will tell him to leave. 

Erebor is won back, in the capable hands of Dain and Fili, still a home. Someone’s home. But no longer his home. Thorin has built his home here in the Shire with Bilbo and he is damned if he lets that get taken from him. Though he says nothing to Lobelia, sweeps Bilbo away with soothing reassurances that he’s fine, in the back of his mind he begins to plot. 

He waited his whole life to take back his home once before. He is prepared to do it again, if only to keep his new one. 

So he waits. Plotting revenge can become a lengthy and consuming endeavor if allowed to fester. But Thorin’s had too much practice at this. So it doesn’t fester. He allows the snide remarks when Lobelia passes him and Bilbo at the market and does not turn a hair when she slithers by on her way down Bagshot Row and sneers at his lovely garden. Even when Bilbo snaps at her and tells her to mind her own sad garden, Thorin remains serene. Some of Bilbo’s Took relatives, who Thorin likes immensely, comment on the one-sided feud that seems to be growing between Lobelia and Thorin over their gardens, he stays quiet and lets them believe it is one-sided. 

Bilbo knows, of course. 

Bilbo can read him better than any book by now. But if he disapproves he doesn’t say. The only thing Bilbo says on the matter is, 

“Don’t let her catch you doing whatever you’re planning. A Baggins can hold a grudge into the next Age.” To which Thorin responded, 

“We defeated a dragon and an entire army of Orcs because of a Dwarven grudge. I would like to see any Hobbit hold a deeper grudge than I did.” Bilbo stared at him for a long moment then snorted inelegantly into his tea. At least Thorin is at the point that he can recognize that, yes, he held a grudge for a very long time but it came to fruition at the end. It will this time too. 

It takes nearly a year and many quietly endured insults to his beautiful garden before the opportunity finally presents itself. The idea remains half formed in his mind all through the season, tumbling around in his mind as winter ticks by and doesn’t fully come together until one late summer day as he is tenderly planting some small azaleas at the edges of his garden. Halfway through reaching for a new plant, Thorin sits back on his heels and laughs. Laughs loud and hard enough to bring Bilbo around the corner of the smial from his own garden, face bright with curiosity and a grin quirking at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re laughing at your garden, love,” he says with curiosity and affection coloring his voice, “I know I’ve told you plants can feel the emotions you project at them.” Thorin just chuckles and waves him over, curling his arm around Bilbo’s waist when he gets close enough. 

“I wasn’t laughing at my flowers,” Thorin murmurs into the fabric of Bilbo’s gardening shirt, smelling dirt and green growing things and a hint of sunlight. Gentle hands card through his hair and he lifts his head enough so he can peer up at Bilbo, chin pressing into his plump stomach. 

“What were you laughing at then?” Bilbo tries to sound vaguely interested but Thorin knows how sharply the curiosity bites at him. His husband often reminds him of a cat; incurably and insatiably curious about all things. It was one of the things that drove him out his door and into an adventure with a band of strange Dwarves in the first place. It is also one of the many things Thorin adores about him. But instead of answering the question, he thoughtfully rubs his nose against Bilbo’s stomach before asking mildly, 

“When is that Sackville-Baggins’s party again?” There is a long pause and he can practically feel Bilbo vibrating with the need to ask what Thorin is being so mysterious about. His dark blue eyes narrow as he looks down into Thorin’s upturned face and studies him for a moment. 

“The the day after tomorrow,” he finally says, voice flat, “Might I ask why?” Thorin grins winningly up at Bilbo, presses a kiss to his belly then pulls away, going back to his garden. 

“No reason,” he returns airily and hides a grin when he can hear Bilbo grinding his teeth in frustration behind him. Thing is, Bilbo knows Thorin will tell him eventually so he just huffs and stomps away, bare feet slapping on the walkway. It is better that Bilbo doesn’t know, anyway. Plausible deniability and all that. 

So with many long looks from Bilbo and a patience he cultivated over many, many years, Thorin spends the next two days waiting. 

As he does, he recalls every single one of Lobelia’s insults and slights over the past year. Don’t belong here she said. Sad excuse for a garden she snapped. Could never hold a candle to a garden grown by a Hobbit she hissed. On and on. And he files them away behind calm expressions and unclenched fists. She has, so far, been proven wrong on all accounts, something that not only Bilbo reminds him of but several of Bilbo’s other relatives and many of his friends do as well. Thorin is no longer afraid of not belonging. That has nothing to do with exacting revenge. It never does. 

And then the night of the party rolls around, dark and full of soft, anxious breeze. A perfect night for sneaking around in the shadows. 

A perfect night for vengeance. 

*

Thorin gives Bilbo a vague excuse when he leaves, his husband watching him with furrowed brows and a frown from where he is bundled up on his favorite reading chair. Thorin knows he won’t follow once he has curled up with his favorite blanket around his shoulders and a good book in his hands. It would take a lot more than curiosity to budge Bilbo from his chair at this time of night. In fact, more nights than not Thorin has to carry him to bed because he’s fallen asleep there. So he can leave Bag End wearing dark clothes and a smirk and is fairly certain he will be left alone. 

The walk through the Shire is quiet this time of night, the air filled with the creaking of crickets and the humming of the katydids. In the distance he can hear music and laughter from the party neither he or Bilbo were invited to and he feels a swell of gratification. Let Lobelia have her fun tonight. Because tomorrow she will get Thorin’s response to her year-long campaign against him and his garden. 

The Sackville-Baggins don’t live all that far from Bag End and before long Thorin steals through their front gate and into Lobelia’s sad excuse for a garden. 

It is still dark but he is used to dark spaces and despite the lack of moonlight, he can see the shapes of the sad, straggly forms of the flowers Lobelia is so proud of. Thorin contemplates them for a moment, hands on his hips and a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. What does she see, exactly, in the sparse, pathetic jumble of a garden she keeps? He wasn’t lying when he told Bilbo it was sad and looks drunk. Sunflowers lean pathetically against the far fence, the heads small and droopy. The roses are already shedding petals, the violets look ill, and the lilies are clearly not getting enough water. He feels bad for them but that won’t stop him. 

So Thorin rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. 

*

Thorin is sunbathing in the grass next to Bilbo’s lilac bushes when the screaming starts the next morning. 

He grins, not even bothering to lift his head or open his eyes. It is impressive, the set of lungs on that woman. Truly. It doesn’t even irritate him today. Today it is music to his ears. 

Eyelids red with the sun behind them, he listens to the screaming as it slowly draws closer, weaving up through the knolls of grass and trees until it comes straight up the lane and slams against the door to Bag End. Like a hurricane. Or a dragon. Thorin chuckles at the comparison of Lobelia to a dragon. She would have given Smaug a run for his money, make no mistake. He knows Bilbo is home but the banging isn’t answered and the shrieking quickly picks back up again, forming words and punctuation he can almost see. 

“You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?” Bilbo’s voice isn’t as angry as Thorin expected so he doesn’t bother to look when he grins a sharp, satisfied grin. There is whisper soft footsteps in the grass that end near his hip and he can feel his husband’s presence beside him like a heavy weight. If he did look, he knows he will find Bilbo’s fists propped up on his hips and an accusing glare narrowing his eyes. 

“Do you mean the harpy banging on the door?” he murmurs, sunlight warming his lips as he speaks. 

“That would be the one,” Bilbo returns wryly and makes a few rustling sounds as he lowers himself beside Thorin on the grass. The warmth of a palm skitters along his thigh and suddenly it is more than sunlight that is warming him. He cracks open one eye and glances at Bilbo, takes in his lovely golden hair and soft, handsome face. The smile that curls on his lips is at odds with the pinch he delivers to the inside of Thorin’s thigh. It sends a slow curl of heat through his veins and he shifts his hips in invitation. Bilbo doesn’t take it though. He just looks down at him thoughtfully, blue eyes shadowed, wincing when there is a particularly long, angry yell from the front of the smial, “What, exactly, did you do?”

Thorin laughs and snatches Bilbo’s hand, directing it up his thigh again. Bilbo lets him, listening when Thorin tells him exactly what he’d done. When he is finished speaking, there is a long silence punctuated by Lobelia’s cursing. Hopefully there are no impressionable children around. 

“Goodness,” Bilbo finally breathes, eyes huge. He stares at Thorin a moment, who knows there is a smug smile on his face and doesn’t care, “I am very glad this garden is only accessible from the house.” Thorin snorts, though he feels the same way. No doubt Lobelia would have already torn through here if there was an outside entrance. 

“Aye, as am I,” and he hitches Bilbo’s hand up higher, one eyebrow lifting in invitation. This time Bilbo laughs softly and leans down to kiss him, admiration coloring his touches. 

“You are a very bad person, Thorin Baggins,” Bilbo whispers against his lips when they part for air and Thorin growls, nips at Bilbo’s plump bottom lip and snakes a hand around to grasp at Bilbo’s round arse. 

“That I am,” he agrees, voice deep and enjoys the way his husband’s eyelids flutter, “You love that about me, though.” They kiss again, then again, fingers grasping, touching, teeth nipping and tongues licking salt from skin. Bilbo’s eyes glint at him for a moment, dark and warm.

“I do indeed. Very much,” and then the angry shrieking disappears as they sink into each other like sunlight into soil. 

*

Around a hill with a round, red door and a neat little walkway, with a small white picket fence and an oddly barren stretch of land in front of it that is nothing but mounds of dirt and a few stray weeds, is a crowd of hobbits. They stare and point and giggle to each other, pointing to the top of the smial that was once covered in lush grass. 

Upon this smial is a garden, sad and pathetic, drooping even more now that it sits on the top of the hill. 

The onlookers laugh because that is Lobelia’s garden, transplanted to the top of her house and showcased for the wilted reality it is. Each plant had been expertly moved, oddly enough, and some of the leaves gleam as if they had even been watered. They are just… in the wrong place. 

And though no one says it out loud, they all know whose work this is. 

In one fell swoop, Thorin earns the enmity of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and the respect of everyone else. 

It is a truly masterful revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness that was fun!

**Author's Note:**

> come join me and send me your own headcanons at lament-for-nimrodel.tumblr.com


End file.
